


In the Halls of the Road Kings

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom
Genre: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys, M/M, Science Fiction, past character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-06
Packaged: 2018-05-12 02:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5649577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens when you don't think you can fight anymore? You hang on the best you can and do what you're good at. Brendon just happens to have a knack for electronics while Travie's good at looking after others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Halls of the Road Kings

**Author's Note:**

  * For [akamine_chan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/gifts).



> written for the snowflake challenge prompt post I put up yesterday.
> 
> Akamine_chan asked for _How about Brendon and Travie (or Brendon/Travie) in the Killjoys 'verse?_ and this is my very boring attempt. I did decide to create a tiny writing mix for this one as well. [In the Halls of the Road Kings](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL17T3jT5eBH8u_xocoN_exNxmLDNWnh_c)
> 
> Expect bad sci-fi elements...because this is me..and I can't NOT. This is also only self-edited.

_Hello Darkness, my old friend. I’ve come to talk with you again._

Brendon wakes up to a steady bass beat and sad lyrics. He peels his headphones off with a twitch and goes to check the soundboards and loop tracers. He’s stationed up here, in the northern reaches of the wasteland, to keep the signal bouncing. Can’t have Doctor D getting found out when it’s easier to boost the radio waves and spread the message out farther to keep the radius of possible locations too far reaching to actually find.

It’s too early to be late. Too late to be early. The Dead Hours. 

All hours might as well be dead, here. Brendon’s used to the deserted feel to the station. He’s only ever had one companion who stays to keep watch. Iceman used to run with the Killjoys, but then, so did Brendon.

Kinda.

Brendon ran with Vega. Ice ran with everyone from the Cobras to the Heroes. 

And, now, here they are.

Lost souls only good for maintenance and security purposes.

Brendon doesn’t care.

It’s not like Vega’s dead. They still do their thing. Brendon’s just not with them these days. 

Spencer and everyone else should be visiting within the month, anyway. He signs up for supply drops whenever Ryan doesn’t want to handle lead. Which is as clockwork as anyone can be in this godforsaken land.

A quick check of the jammer coils is the first thing on his after-nap list. The coils are old but tweaked out. They won’t fail without tampering. Brendon’s good at electronics, even if his hands shake more than they should when he’s trying to solder wire together for patch jobs.

What good is he out on the road if he can’t handle a phase pistol or grip a steering wheel tightly? 

No good. 

Second on the list is making sure the loop tracers haven’t frozen. If the fans lock up, the mainframe overheats and the tracers freeze. Brendon’s spent hours with lubri-grease, an alan driver, and pliers trying to fix the fans.

To no avail.

One day, they’ll go out. When that happens, Brendon’s fucked. The Dracs will come. 

And that’ll be all that was sung.

However, today isn’t that day.

Brendon sighs and pushes shaky fingers through his hair before going to the soundboard to check the lights and make sure none of the slider bars have stuck. They pipe out the Dead Hour tunes so the other station can work on maintenance and compose the daily news bytes.

A tap to the glass gets Brendon’s attention. He looks up and Ice is standing in Brendon’s little radio den with two cups of filtered water, three protein bars, and Brendon’s tiny tin of medication.

It’s time for breakfast.

“Morning, Travie.” Brendon knows he sounds tired when he exits the equipment room and goes back to his modified sound booth.

“You look like shit, Bren.”

Brendon takes his cup of water and his meds, downing the green pills as quickly as possible without using too much h2o. Their filtration unit is about to kick the bucket. So they ration the best they can without going through dehydration. 

Once finished, Brendon sets his glass(and medication tin) on his desk and wolfs his protein bar. Their food ratios are less of the canned variety because those are harder to smuggle than a jag of protein bars stowed in the hidden pockets of a zilion jackets.

“Same to you, Travie. Come and fucking cuddle. You spent _all_ of yesterday fixing the solar panels. I missed you.” It’s a pout and a whine. Brendon doesn’t give a single shit.

He lives off of shitty food, bleached water, and singed radio wires. He’s not fucking living without the touch of another person. Their pasts be damned.

Around here, they’re _not_ Quicksilver and Iceman. They’re Brendon and Travie. The ghosts of their former road demon selves. Or the origin stories of their lives put in reverse.

Whatever.

Brendon’s stopped caring, even if Spencer had given Travie the evil eye glare of death when he found out code names had gone out the window. It was a very _solar panel calling a drive coil shiny_ moment. Which Jon called out, only to get the same glare.

God, Brendon misses his friends. He just _can’t_ be a liability. He’d fucking lock himself in a closet in Battery City before he’d do anything to jeopardize his family. Hence, his little hermit world of radio waves and Travie cuddles.

“You need a nap,” Travie’s fingers are warm when they card through Brendon’s dirty hair.

Brendon always needs a nap. Even when he’s just woken up. 

Travie drags him to the corner where Brendon’s bedtime nest is. It’s not used as often as his desk chair, or Travie’s own bed. But, then, Brendon’s usually forcing himself to work whenever Travie isn’t around to make him slow down.

“I just woke up.” His voice is as demanding as a child’s. Brendon huffs because he’s an adult, yet he always sounds like a ten-year-old, these days.

“After we nap, we’ll go out.” Travie arranges Brendon the way he likes before throwing a thin blanket over the both of them.

They never go out. Even with Travie’s barracuda carefully hidden behind the station in a little make-shift garage to keep sand out of the ventilation. 

But, one day, maybe. 

As long as Brendon isn’t the one driving, or shooting at burning rubber.


End file.
